


i'm okay, we're okay

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier truly never thought he would live to see the day he was terrified of Geralt. For all he knew that was an impossible fret. He trusted Geralt, evenlovedhim (though he never said that in so many words; Geralt wasn’t exactly the warm and cuddly type).But life had a way of surprising you, as Jaskier had learned over the decades.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 546





	i'm okay, we're okay

**Author's Note:**

> canon typical violence warning!!!!
> 
> inspired by this beautiful piece of art: 
> 
> https://twitter.com/wickedjaskiers/status/1247387953078435840
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier had never— _never_ —been scared of Geralt, not even when they had first met, not even after he had punched him, not when he had returned to their shared room at an inn one night covered in blood and guts, eyes dark as the night.

Maybe he should’ve been, but he just wasn’t.

And despite Geralt’s jokes (“hah, you just don’t have any survival instincts”) Jaskier knew better. He actually had plenty of survival instincts. Fight or flight as they called it, and normally he always chose flight, running off with his tail between his legs.

Because bravery meant nothing if you were dead, but—

Geralt was different. It was like Jaskier just _knew_ he was a good man the moment he saw him, sitting alone and brooding in that tavern. He had been drawn to him, like a bee to honey.

He made jokes, of course, some even bordering cruel, but Geralt had proven himself to be a good man over the years. He protected Jaskier, even when that meant getting hurt himself.

Always made sure he came back to camp with enough food for two, paid for his meals and lodging.

He brushed these things off but Jaskier truly appreciated them; he held Geralt’s companionship—friendship—dear to his heart.

Jaskier truly never thought he would live to see the day he was terrified of Geralt. For all he knew that was an impossible fret. He trusted Geralt, even _loved_ him (though he never said that in so many words; Geralt wasn’t exactly the warm and cuddly type).

But life had a way of surprising you, as Jaskier had learned over the decades.

 _This_ particular surprise? Came in the form a beast, furry and towering, and Geralt grabbing an elixir blindly out of his bag, downing it like a shot.

Jaskier didn’t even think twice about it; Geralt took elixirs all the time—sometimes he even shared them with Jaskier if he was injured, but only some of them were safe for humans.

He never would’ve thought Geralt even carried an elixir that did something so _stupid and dangerous_. And he certainly hadn’t told him about it.

Probably because he knew Jaskier would’ve told him to get rid of it. It wasn’t worth it.

Geralt yelled, suddenly, and Jaskier startled, stumbling back, though he was already hiding in the trees. Geralt was faster, stronger, even Jaskier could see that.

He danced around the beast like it was moving in slow motion, jumping and swirling in the air.

Jaskier didn’t know why or how, but it was like he could tell something was wrong, a heaviness in the pit of his stomach weighing him down.

But it was a good thing—Geralt had been losing, and now he was winning.

Geralt growled so loud Jaskier could hear him, even from so far, and he spun, his sword cutting through the air as he aimed for the back of the beast’s neck. The beast reached up with a furry paw but it was too late; Geralt’s sword sliced through skin.

Jaskier’s lips twitched, something between a smile and a grimace as the beast fell to the ground with a loud _thud_ , the ground vibrating under his feet from the impact.

He had done it—the fight was over. Jaskier stepped out from between the trees and Geralt’s head snapped in his direction, too fast, too sharp.

There was something wrong.

His eyes were black—normal enough—but the rest of his face was curled in anger, _fury_. Jaskier stopped suddenly, kicking dirt up.

“Geralt?” he called softly.

Then he was moving, running toward him. He was too fast. Jaskier knew there was no point in trying to run. Geralt halted to a stop in front of him and reached out with his free hand, grabbing his neck.

Jaskier gasped, immediately reacting—he clawed uselessly at Geralt’s arm as the witcher pulled back his sword and pointed the tip at his neck.

He was still, perfectly still, even the blade.

One wrong move and he’d be dead, a heap of blood and skin on the ground, just like that beast.

Jaskier didn’t understand. “Geralt,” he said. “Geralt, it’s—it’s me. Jaskier.”

Geralt growled loudly and flung him on the ground. Jaskier landed on his back, gasping from the pain and seeing stars. He tried to sit up but again he was too slow; Geralt stomped a foot on his chest and pressed the tip of his sword to his neck.

He stared up at him through the stars in his vision. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t _Geralt_.

Had the beast done something? No, it didn’t matter—what mattered was not dying, especially not at the hands of Geralt. Not only because he _really_ didn’t want to die, but because he knew—he _knew_ Geralt would never forgive himself if he snapped out of this and saw Jaskier at his feet, a sword through his throat. _His_ sword.

“Geralt,” he said, but then he was pressing down on his chest with all his weight. He struggled for air. He heard something— _Gods_ , please don’t be a rib.

His eyes flashed with something, but he didn’t stop. He pressed the tip of his sword into Jaskier’s flesh; he felt the wetness of blood, but only a bit.

Jaskier’s eyes welled with tears. He clawed at Geralt’s leg, tried to push him off but it was all useless.

This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t die like this, not at Geralt’s hands. He just _couldn’t_. It had never even been an option. He imagined dying many times—a very human thing, perhaps—but it was always at the hands of a beast or simply old age finally taking its toll.

Hell, even Yennefer impulsively snapping his neck made more sense than _this_.

Jaskier had to try at least one more time, even if breathing was unbelievably painful right now and he kind of just wanted to give up and let Geralt do it: plunge his sword through his neck and stop it all. But he couldn’t.

He had to fight. For once there was no running away.

“Geralt,” he gasped, vision blurring as he stared up at him. Geralt looked surprisingly angelic in that moment, the moon behind him. Ironic, given the situation. “Geralt, it’s—it’s me. Jaskier. Julian. Your—your _friend_.”

His mouth twitched. Jaskier hoped that was a good sign.

“You don’t—you don’t want to do this,” he continued, tears pouring down his cheeks now. He tasted copper; assumed he had bit his tongue at some point without realizing it. “Please, please, Geralt, _don’t_ do this—”

Geralt tilted his head, inhumanely slow. Jaskier clutched at his leg, openly sobbing.

“ _Geralt_ —”

He saw it—the moment Geralt snapped out of it. His eyes widened, comically so, but not really, given the situation. He dropped his sword and Jaskier rolled, quickly, sitting up. Geralt stumbled back, pulling at his hair.

“I—I almost—” he stammered.

Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath, gasping for air. When he could breathe again, he slowly stood up. Geralt didn’t even look at him as he approached, slow and careful.

“Geralt,” he said, voice hoarse. “What the fuck just happened?”

He took another step back as he neared, not looking at him. “I had to, Jaskier. That—that beast was too strong.”

Jaskier nodded, though he couldn’t see him. “Do _what,_ Geralt?”

Finally he looked up and Jaskier gasped, unable to help himself; he had never seen Geralt _cry_ before, and he wasn’t crying, even now, but his eyes were red-rimmed and coming back from their blackness, damp with unshed tears.

“That elixir,” he said. “It—it gives me a _boost_ , makes me faster, stronger but…”

Jaskier understood immediately. “But makes you lose control.”

Geralt nodded, fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair. “I—I could’ve _killed_ you, Jaskier.” He took a step back, nearly tripped. Jaskier had never seen him so unnerved, not that he was much better: his own hands were still shaking. He hid them behind his back, not wanting Geralt to see. “You should go,” he said, clearing his throat. “ _Go_ , Jaskier.”

“As if,” he replied instantly. “I am not leaving you, Geralt, especially not when you’re like _this_.”

Geralt stared at him for a long, silent moment before stepping forward, closer. Jaskier flinched without even meaning to. Geralt growled, but it wasn’t anger, exactly.

“You should go,” he repeated. “Leave! Get _out of here!”_

Jaskier shook his head firmly, squaring his shoulders. He turned around and took a step forward, crouching down to pick up Geralt’s sword. There was a bit of blood on the tip. Right; he felt his throat, sticky with a small amount of blood.

Nothing that wouldn’t heal within a few days.

Standing up, he turned back and extended the sword to Geralt. “Take it,” he said, nodding.

Geralt stared at him like he was crazy. “I just tried to _stab_ you with that, Jaskier,” he hissed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Jaskier frowned, pursing his lips, as he stepped forward and grabbed one of Geralt’s hands. Geralt didn’t stop him, though he easily could’ve. Pulling his hand up, he stuck the hilt of the sword in the palm of his hand and Geralt’s fingers instinctively curled around it.

“There,” he said.

Geralt’s eyes flickered down. “Your—your neck,” he said. “Jaskier, _fuck_.”

Jaskier covered it with a hand. “It’s barely a scratch, Geralt,” he said, mostly meaning it. He noticed Geralt’s hand was shaking, trembling, around the hilt of the sword. Jaskier’s heart squeezed. “Hey, hey,” he said, taking his other hand and squeezing. “I am okay.”

“But if I hadn’t snapped out of it,” he said, “Just a second longer and I might’ve—”

Jaskier squeezed his hand even harder. “Geralt, you didn’t. I am okay. You’re okay. _We're_ okay. That’s what matters.”

“But—”

Jaskier interrupted breezily, “You will make it up to me, okay?” Geralt paused, looking at him oddly. He smiled slightly. “We will go back to the inn and you’ll patch me up, hmm? And then you will swear to me,” he reached up with his other hand, holding Geralt’s hand in both of his, “you will _never_ use that elixir again. You’ll swear to me you’ll find another way next time. And if you have any, you’ll get rid of it as soon as possible.”

Geralt swallowed, throat bobbing. Jaskier waited patiently, knew he needed a moment. “Okay.”

Jaskier nodded, smiling a little bigger. “Well,” he said. “Come on, then.”

He worried after that—worried that maybe he’d never be able to trust Geralt again, not the way he had before, not with his whole being. But that had been ridiculous. He would _always_ trust Geralt, especially after bearing witness to him breaking the only other vial of that stuff on the forest floor, glass shattering at their feet. Pleased, he had turned and wrapped his arms around Geralt, and they had held each other for far too long.


End file.
